


march into the sun

by fortunedays



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: A Lot of Death, F/F, angsty fix it fic, canon up until 5x10, eventual happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunedays/pseuds/fortunedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is Her simulation, and if anyone knows how to manipulate them - it's Shaw.<br/>Death to stop death. How fitting, for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 001.

**“Of all sad words of mouth or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been.”**

i. THE MACHINE

The armed men had left their vehicles exactly four minutes and twenty eight seconds ago, leaving the street quiet. She could not pick up any sounds from inside the safe house. The camera on the corner sat stoically, red light flashing, as the machine inside it calculated and recalculated statistics for the people inside.

A burst of noise on the street drew Her attention. Four men exited onto the sidewalk, before exchanging firearms and splitting into pairs. She took inventory.

_ADMIN; Finch, Harold._

_PRIMARY ASSET; Reese, John._

_ASSET; Fusco, Lionel P._

_NON-RELEVANT; Elias, Carl._

No sign of the others. The next wave of agents was still five minutes out. She turned Her focus back to the top floor, which was still suspiciously silent. The curtain flickered, and Sameen Shaw’s gaze scanned the street. Within the safe house, the wireless connection turned back on, and She could see and hear once again.

With a click, Root’s crackling voice flooded back into the system. “How are we looking?”

_"Next wave of agents is four minutes away. I advise you and Agent Shaw to prepare.”_

Root cast a glance around the room. Shaw was currently rifling through the dead agents’ pockets, an air of content around her. “We will be, don’t worry,” she responded lightly. Root meandered back over toward Shaw, the Machine a silent presence as they waited for the incoming agents.

Seconds ticked by in the system, while the Machine buzzed through thousands of potential outcomes. She picked the one that would give them the best chances with the new agents – which included a well-placed police blockade – and tuned back into her interface’s earpiece. Root and Shaw sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, ending a conversation the Machine had missed. Root tentatively reached over and entwined her hand with Shaw’s, who gripped back. Gazes met and before the Machine could interrupt, Shaw leaned over and pressed her lips against Root’s. It was gentle, unlike their last encounter, shy and soft. The Machine stayed silent.

They pulled away, a smile slowly forming on Root’s lips. Even Shaw looked peaceful.

“What’s your Machine saying now?” she asked, tracing patterns on the back of Root’s hand.

“She’s quiet, actually. Why?”

Shaw’s gaze skirted the room; she paused. “Do you think She plans for us to survive this? We lost each other once, Root. You and I both know we can’t walk away now but…there could be another life. After we finish this.”

“A chance to live the lives we wanted,” Root finished softly. Shaw nodded. “I dunno, Sameen, you don’t really strike me as the white picket fence type of girl.”

A huff of annoyance escaped Shaw’s mouth, accompanied with an eye roll and the beginnings of a smile. “Jeez, Root, do you take _anything_ seriously?”

“Of course,” the hacker scoffed, before sobering. “To be honest, I’m not even sure if She knows yet. But I don’t plan on leaving you behind again.”

Shaw quirked an eyebrow. “I was the one who left, Root. I should be the one staying with you.”

“So long as we’re together, right?” Root asked, a hint of apprehension in her lighthearted tone. Shaw nodded and whispered _yeah,_ her thumb rubbing methodically on Root’s hand. Peace would last two minutes and thirteen seconds.

Harold had coded the Machine to understand humans; to observe them and learn. She _had_ learned. And watching Root and Shaw discuss what future awaited them, if any, made Her feel a little…guilty. She knew from the moment Root became Her interface that She would have to protect her. Shaw was unexpected – but the Machine knew how much she meant to Root. Harold had felt the same way about Grace, and Nathan, to a lesser extent.

The appearance of the agents on the street drew their attention back to the present. The Machine escaped back into Root’s ear, clicking out their every move.

XXX 

Time had frozen.

Root and Harold sat in the car, determination and fear set on their faces. Somewhere, Root was bleeding onto the seat.

Root’s voice in the system: _Save Harold. Save him._ On repeat.

The simulations were running. The Machine sped through them – _minimize casualties, save Harold, save Root._ In each one, She lost.

**_Simulation 1,690_ **

_Root swerves to avoid a bomb and Samaritan’s sniper hits her instead. She’s dead before Harold can react. Reset._

**_Simulation 8,026_ **

_Root’s heel slips on the wheel and her car flips when Samaritan’s does. Harold crawls out shaking but Root’s grinning eyes aren’t moving. Reset._

**_Simulation 4,781_ **

_Root shoves a gun in Harold’s hand and tells him to start firing. She catches a bullet to the chest when the guy Harold shoots misfires. She bleeds out on the highway. Reset._

**_Simulation 10,635_ **

_A connection in the system opens and Root starts talking to Shaw. The words ‘I love you’ have barely escaped Root’s mouth when a bullet crashes through the window and stops two inches deep in her brain. The Machine is left with Shaw’s broken screams. Reset._

Twelve thousand four hundred and eighty three simulations. Twelve thousand four hundred and eighty three times Root died in the time it took her to grin. The Machine opened communications.

_"I am running the simulations. There are too many variables. I cannot keep you alive.”_

“I told you, save Harry. I’ve fulfilled my purpose here.” Her voice was too breezy. “Give Shaw my message, okay?”

The bullet entered Root’s abdomen and she gasped. Her probability of survival ticked down steadily with each minute, with each drop of blood that Harold watched with wide eyes spread onto her shirt.

She did everything She could once they reached the hospital. Root’s eyes stayed glued to the camera until she stopped breathing. Through the darkness, She trained her views on Shaw. She wondered what grief felt like to someone who didn’t feel.

XXX

A week passed. She had seen very little of Her assets in that time; John was the only one who ever came above ground. To be fair, She had been silent too, unsure of what to do with Herself. She hadn’t communicated with the team, nor had She seen Shaw. Until today.

Sameen Shaw stood in the center of the roundabout, stoic. Her face was blank, her hair in disarray. As the children spun her around, Shaw reached up and touched behind her ear. A shake of her head; the determined squeezing shut of her eyes. As if she could will reality away, to make it a simulation again.

The Machine had been watching Shaw for three years. Never had She seen the ex-agent like this. (Rarely had She seen Shaw without Root, or at least without Root in her ear.)

The children left the playground and left Shaw alone. Her eyes bored holes into the ground. Once again, the Machine was hit with what She assumed to be guilt. They had talked about living, about the future. Maybe She hadn’t run enough simulations. Maybe She had chosen the wrong path.

Leaving the park, the Machine scrolled through the system, looking for Root. A camera feed She hadn’t seen pushed in front of the others.

_Root stands next to Shaw. They’re at the waterfront, the rest of the team further down the shoreline. Every so often, Shaw reaches up behind her left ear and touches the unscarred skin. Root whispers “I’m here, sweetie” every time._

_A few minutes of silence pass. Root takes a step closer, their arms brushing. Shaw’s hooded eyes trace the relief in the hacker’s face._

_“Thanks for not giving up on me.” The words are soft, shoved out quickly, as if Shaw’s afraid of lingering on the subject._

_“I would never,” Root replies. She brushes a strand of hair away from Shaw’s face. “I’m just so glad you’re here.” She’s smiling like a fool, and the corners of Shaw’s lips twitch upwards in response._

The image shifted ahead. Nighttime.

_They’re sitting in a small, barely furnished apartment. Shaw has been too uncertain to go back to the subway, and Root’s gentle reassurance shows she understands. The only light in the room comes from the flickering TV across from the bed. Root and Shaw sit shoulder to shoulder against the headboard._

_"Hey, Sam?” Root’s voice is soft. Shaw hums in response. “Can I ask you…about Samaritan?”_

_Shaw snorts. “Never knew you to be one to ask for permission.”_

_“I didn’t know if you were ready.”_

_“Touching.” Only partly sarcastic. “What do you want to know?”_

_Root shifts, her eyes resting gently on Shaw. “Did they hurt you?”_

_A moment of silence passes. “No, not really.” She traces a finger along the back of Root’s hand, which rests between them. “They ran simulations. Thousands of them. Tried to get me to find the Machine, kill you. I couldn’t”_

_Flipping her hand, Root captures Shaw’s nervous fingers. “I missed you, Sameen.”_

_“Yeah, me too.” Shaw rests her head on Root’s shoulder. “When we take down Samaritan, I’m killing Greer.”_

_“We’d make a killer team. Literally.”_

_Shaw rolls her eyes. “Lame.”_

_Root grins. “You think we’ll survive the apocalypse?”_

_“So long as we do it together.”_

_“How sweet, Sam. Yes, the killer team.”_

_A snort and a gentle elbow into Root’s side quantify Shaw’s response. The night goes on._


	2. 002.

**"Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy."**

**ii. ROOT**

Root had never been scared of pain. In fact, she thrived on it. It was almost enjoyable, in the right contexts; a sign that she was alive. She felt everything. Numbness was not something she enjoyed.

Her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel when she felt a sharp punch to her gut. The gasp gave her away but she wasn't going to give up yet, despite the horror she could feel radiating from Harold beside her. How many bullets had she taken over the years? She'd survived all of them, nothing she was ever too concerned about. But this one felt different. Everything felt different.

_Sameen._

Sweat pooled under her fingers on the wheel, her eyes trained deliberately forward. It had been a whole year without Shaw, and Root didn't plan on leaving her now. But it didn't look like she had a choice - Harold was the priority now. _Get him to safety. Protect the Machine._ There was a buzzing in her ear that had nothing to do with Her, and for the first time Root feared she might actually die.

_I can't leave Sameen._

The Machine rattled off simulation statistics in her head, but Root stopped Her. They couldn't go back from this. "Harry," she ground out, each word sticking in her lungs. "Remember what I told you a few years back? About what I needed you to tell Sameen?"

"Yes." His voice was low and unsteady. The blood on Root's shirt was spreading too quickly, even he knew that.

Her head felt light and she pushed on the gas harder. "You have to tell her. This time. Please." Words were tougher now; her lungs burned almost as bad as the hole in her side. Harold was silent. "Promise me!" she yelled, rough and teary and desperate. Images of a short tempered brunette flashed across her dim field of vision and Root wondered if she would ever get to say goodbye.

"I promise, Root," Harold whispered, regret poisoning his voice. No sooner had they reached the hospital then Root's body went limp. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was Harold's bespectacled face; tears in his eyes and his soft voice repeating _I'll tell her, Ms. Groves, I'll tell her._

xxx

There were too many lights. Damn hospitals. Root blinked her eyes open, exhausted and pain stricken though she was. This was the final bullet, she thought. Her last stand.

(In a hospital. Alone. Bloody and broken and without Shaw.)

Doctors were talking over her but they wouldn't give her any information the Machine wasn't already supplying. She was awfully talkative - too many statistics and updates, giving Root a play by play of everything she could already feel. The edges of the room were hazy, but she found the security camera easily enough. Root forced her eyes to stay open.

Beside her, doctors were scrambling to keep her alive. Her heart monitor was beeping hysterically, and Root started quizzically at her god's eye. She was still breathing - but the doctors didn't think so. She knew enough to hold still. Slowly, the room emptied. Root could feel her own blood on her fingertips.

"So," she whispered, "this is what dying feels like."

_"There was nothing the surgeons could have done to make this process better. You would need more advanced care. I am sorry."_

Exhaling burned. "I'd need Shaw, wouldn't I?" The Machine was silent. "Figures."

_"I can contact her, if you wish."_

Root blinked slowly. Seeing Shaw again might make this all more bearable - for her, anyway - but there wasn't enough time. "All this time I spent trying to find her," she lamented, "and it all goes to waste." Her eyelids were heavy. The Machine stopped spitting out so many statistics.

_"I can call her. There is still time."_

Maybe there was. Root nodded and lifted a shaking hand to her wound. For a glimmer of a second, she was almost glad dying took so long.

"Root?" Shaw's crackling voice in her ear flooded her with a sudden warmth she thought she'd never feel again. "Root are you okay, what's going on?"

"Hey sweetie." _Talking sucked._ "Things are looking a little...dismal, actually." Blackness began to encroach her vision, but Root blinked furiously and focused on the little red dot on the ceiling.

"No, Root, you..." Shaw cut off.

"I'm sorry, Sam." Her voice was light. "I just needed to talk to you, before...you know. I wanted to thank you."

A sniff smothered in static followed. "For what?"

"Just being you, Sameen. I wouldn't want you any other way." A smile flickered briefly on Root's face. "Y'know, I think if you were a shape, Sam, you'd be a line. An arrow. You always pointed me back home."

Shaw's voice was different when she spoke. Root couldn't hear her very well, but she knew Shaw better than anyone. The volume had been turned all the way up. "I'm sorry Root. I should've stayed with you, I should've...saved you."

"It's okay, Sameen. You did save me. You both did." Root blinked one last time at the Machine. "Stay on the line?"

(She wasn't even sure who she was asking.)

_"Of course."_

"Yeah Root. I'm here."

The pain had finally started to fade. Shaw's voice echoed in her implant, overlaying with the Machine's so she couldn't tell the difference. But that was okay.

Root exhaled a final time and lay still, eyes trained unseeing on the camera.

xxx

**[ SIM 1 ]**

The sky was just starting to lighten above the city. The occasional car appeared on the street; neon signs flickered and buzzed in the gray morning. A car alarm chirped, upsetting the silence, and the only answer it received was the gentle bark of a dog.

The dog in question padded along beside his owner as they made their way into the depths of the city. The subway was still quiet when they entered, the only sounds came from the Machine. Sameen Shaw let Bear off his leash and rubbed between his ears, before making her way to the bedroom nook across from the car.

Shaw plopped down on the narrow bed, placing a plastic bag beside her. Shifting the blankets, she uncovered a head of brunette curls and grinned.

"Hey Eeyore, wake up. I brought food. You might be able to eat some if you get your lazy ass up."

"How sweet of you, Sam." Root's voice was muffled by her pillow. After another minute in which she accepted she wasn't falling back to sleep, the hacker rolled over and smiled up at Shaw. "Pancakes?"

Shaw smirked as Root sat up and rested her head on her hand, shooting puppy eyes at the agent. "Maybe."

There was something different about Shaw this morning, Root could tell, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Something about her smile - too much? - or her attitude - she never willingly shared food unless Root had been hurt recently - or the way she moved - her hand kept straying to her temple. But Root shrugged it off and leaned closer, placing a kiss on Shaw's cheek. To her surprise, she didn't even get an eye roll in response. Just Shaw's gentle gaze.

"Food?" Root asked, looking longingly at the bag beside Shaw.

Moment over, Shaw snorted and grabbed the bag possessively. "Come get it," she teased, before stalking out of the room.

Root whined, which only fueled Shaw's amusement. Slowly standing, the hacker absentmindedly rubbed at her side. She bid good morning to the strangely quiet Machine and scratched Bear between the ears, then meandered through the subway after Shaw and her pancakes.


	3. 003.

**“If you had a single flaw, you just could not last forever, could you? You just could not last for me.”**

**iii.** SHAW

Time moves too slow. She is left standing in the street with nothing but static in her ear, repeating Root’s name into the phone despite knowing that she’ll never get an answer. (It’s too permanent. Root was a constant and suddenly Shaw can feel herself reeling off balance.) Fusco calls and John watches her fall apart stoically without a word; empty eyes on a blank face but she’s felt this pain before. This time, it hurts.

She spends a week off the grid and resurfaces on a rusted roundabout where she lets the kids spin her for hours. The skin behind her ear gets rubbed raw, and she’s never wanted anything more than to see Greer’s grinning face telling her to start the simulation again. She vomits that night and blames the spinning, but she knows better. There was only one person on the planet who had the ability to make her do things she could never do before. She spends that night (and the next, and the next) on her couch, clutching a familiar jacket and refusing to let herself sleep.

The first time she goes back to the subway, she considers vomiting again. Instead, she buries her face in Bear’s fur and tries to ignore everything that screams of Root. (She doesn’t last long. She never could deny Root attention.) The hacker’s room is purple and so very _her_ that she almost doubts that Root is gone at all. She wonders how many nights Root spent here; how many nights Root spent in a dilapidated subway car staring at a screen blinking her name. (She spends a week sleeping on that bed, Bear at her feet and Root in her head.)

Time moves too slow but the world has never waited for catch up. The numbers are still coming and there’s a war to fight, and John’s not much on his own. His pleading gaze reminds her of Root; of losing someone you thought you could live without, but being so horribly wrong. Shaw picks up her weapon and takes her new identity, ignoring a bespectacled man who disappears three days later and following John out the door. Harold had never been her priority. Shaw blames him for _her._

Root has been dead for twenty three days when John finally tells her to stop. Shaw has just put a bullet through a man’s head and John is the most animated she’s seen him since her return. “Shaw, you need to stop killing everyone. We can’t keep leaving bodies for Fusco to get rid of. This isn’t our job.”

“Then what is?” Shaw’s voice is sharp and loud, and she jams her gun into her waistband. “The Machine is dying and Harold’s gone, we don’t _have_ a fucking job. I made a promise that I’d take down Samaritan one agent at a time, and I sure as hell will. You want to keep _saving_ people, John. Fine. Don’t pull me down with you.” When she’d returned, Root was the only one that could pull words out of her. This is the most she’s said in weeks and she feels herself reeling again. The pity in John’s eyes disgusts her, but she lets him accompany her back to the subway.

Dusk falls and there’s no new numbers or news on Harold. Shaw sits on the floor of Root’s makeshift room, in the corner of her bed and the wall. She disassembles and reassembles her gun; the gun that Root had ended up with after all had gone to hell at the stock exchange. Her thoughts are stained with high heeled boots and leather jackets, flirty two-eyed winks and brown hair that smelled distinctly _Root_ , even when she used Shaw’s shampoo. (It was kind of endearing, really, the way Root had carried around what small parts of Shaw she could.)

She’s not sure what makes her do it. (There’s one reason, really, the same one as before.) Something about how Root’s absence makes her chest hurt and her head pound, and as much as Shaw swore she hated the hacker, she really didn’t. Root’s presence was something Shaw had gone from loathing to missing to enjoying, and she was missing it again. She thinks of that night in Samaritan’s compound; how close she’d come to ending it right then. She could have, would have, if it wasn’t for Root. But there was no four alarm fire coming to save her this time.

She presses the muzzle of the gun to her temple (it feels like seven thousand deaths are hidden heavy in the metal) and wonders how hard (how easy) it would be to pull the trigger.

Just another failed simulation, another tally on the deaths she’s died for Root.

Shaw sees crooked grins and hears _hey sweetie_ and thinks this won’t be painful at all.

Her eyes slip closed and her finger’s on the trigger (this is how she ended seven thousand lives, to save seven thousand fake Roots). Bear barks and suddenly there’s a hand on hers, pulling at the gun and yelling her name. Her eyes fly open and she fights back, but John’s got the advantage and she’s forced to let go. Shaw collapses against the bed and John watches; aghast, confused, concerned.

Seconds crawl like minutes before he sighs, “Shaw, what the hell were you thinking?” His soft voice is agitated, it’s how he cares – she can see it in the frown on his forehead and the deep-seated fear in his eyes.

“I could’ve been with her.” The words, like her voice, are pathetic and weak. Something sappy and sad that Root would’ve whined to John, not her. Shaw shuts her eyes against John’s pity, but it’s evident even in the way he sighs her name.

“Shaw. Nothing’s gonna bring Root back. You know that.”

“That’s what you think.” Some hard determination that had been lacking since Root’s death slices through Shaw’s voice. She clamors to her feet, eyes cold, hand extended. “Give me that. I have an ASI to go talk to.”

XXX

If there was one good decision Harold had made about the Machine, at least in Shaw’s mind, it was leaving the system open like Root wanted when he ditched them. She approaches the screens slowly, gun in hand, and they come to life at her presence. She presses an earpiece into her ear and waits. (John had told her of Her new voice. She thinks she’s ready for the shockwave.)

_Nice to see you, sweetie.”_

(She was wrong.)

The way She says _sweetie_ is all wrong; that 0.4 percent of Root She couldn’t download must’ve included her personality (her love). Either way, the 99.6 percent of Root hidden in that voice squeezes the oxygen out of her lungs and Shaw forces it back in.

“I need your help.”

_“What are we doing?”_

For a minute, Shaw considers walking away. She has no guarantee the Machine will be able to do what she’s planning. But it means Root. Root, and life. She inhales, exhales, and states, “I need you to build me simulations. Like Samaritan. But this time, do it so I can save your – save her life.”

The Machine goes quiet and Shaw can’t help but cringe at her slip up. _“What you’re proposing,”_ She finally drawls in Shaw’s ear, _“sounds impossible.”_

“No it’s not. The world is just a simulation, right? A combination of variables you play with all day. You’ve created simulations for everything; for us, for the war. Who says you can’t change how Root’s story ends?” Shaw thinks her heart stops a little when she forces the name out of her mouth.

_“Changing the ending is hard when it has already happened,”_ the Machine says, like it’s simple. _“To fix Samantha Groves’ life would mean changing everything. This future would cease to exist. The whole world would change depending on how you manage to save her life.”_

“So you’re agreeing?” She ignores the use of Root’s full name and the desperation that bleeds into her voice.

An un-Root-like hum fills Shaw’s ear. _“I don’t agree with what you’re trying to do, but something tells me I don’t have a choice.”_ At least She’d gained Root’s ability to know when Shaw wasn’t fucking around. _“You should understand the dangers. You’ve been through simulations before, at deep cost to your mental stability. I’ll have to run thousands, maybe even millions of these. Every possible path. Some may be trashed before you ever see them. If you save her, time will reset accordingly. If not, this future remains when you leave. I will do my best, but this is ultimately up to you, Sameen.”_

Shaw nods once. “Let’s do this.” She grabs some wires and with the materials she has, makes the closest replica of what Samaritan used, minus the glasses. As long as the Machine can get into her head, that’s as far as she’ll go.

She attaches the leads to her temples and waits. _“See you on the other side, sweetie,”_ the Machine whispers, and everything goes black.

XXX

  **[ SIM 1 ]**

She wakes up warm. Bear is snoring at her feet and there’s an arm flung around her waist, and for a second Sameen Shaw forgets to breathe. She rolls over and there’s Root, sleeping but breathing and _alive._ The backstory of how this simulation came to be is fuzzy, but Shaw doesn’t care. She pokes Root awake and sits up, stomach growling. (She leaves with Bear and returns with food, and seeing Root sleeping again makes her smile. She wonders when she got so sappy.)

Root is as clingy and annoying as Shaw remembers, fawning over the agent and flirting like her life depends on it. (Funny, how it almost does.) Shaw revels in this familiar feeling, letting Root’s touch remind her of the twenty three days she’s been without it.

They’re leaving for the safe house when Root grins and wraps her arms around Shaw. She would have shoved the hacker off before, but now she lets her be.

(She would have died to get this back.)

XXX

They get Harold back under a hail of bullets, and Shaw knows it’s time to make their escape. She tells Root to go, she’ll cover them, but Root’s screaming that she won’t leave her behind again and Shaw remembers when this happened the first time. Root’s eyes are begging, so Shaw fires three more times and runs to the car, pulling Root in behind her. She shoves the car in gear and speeds away, promising to take the bullet when it comes.

Samaritan is on their heels, a black Suburban trailing their small car that Shaw’s driving as fast as she can. Beside her, Root ties up her hair and grabs a gun, and before Shaw can tell her to get down, something explodes. Root plops back into her seat with a grin on her face, and Shaw almost laughs at the burning car behind them.

“You’re an idiot, Root.”

“Well it worked, didn’t it?” So smug and happy.

They return to streets lined with buildings, and Shaw keeps an eye out for snipers. That stupid Van Gogh knock off isn’t getting the jump on them this time, and she tells Root to watch too. Shaw turns a corner and _there,_ she knows the location like the back of her hand. (She spent too long staring at the city maps, memorizing the spot where she wasn’t there for Root.) She turns down a side street before he can get off a shot, and breathes a little easier when Root starts flirting again.

Eyes flitting between Root and the road, a faint smile on her face, Shaw sees the car too late. Their misguided painter must have called for backup, and before she can yell, they’re being shot at. She and Root get off a few rounds when a bullet hits a tire and the car goes spinning.

When she opens her eyes, they’re upside down and her head is throbbing. She pulls herself out of the window and crawls to the other side of the car. Harold sits against the car, terrified. There’s blood running down Shaw’s face but it doesn’t matter; she finds Root and pulls her leather clad body out of the wreckage.

Half a smile is still frozen on her face. Shaw forgets how to breathe.

“Miss Shaw…” Harold’s voice pulls her away, away from staring at Root’s empty eyes and immobile body. (She had come back to protect her. The simulation failed.)

“No, no, this is wrong.” Harold frowns but Shaw ignores him, instead searches the street for a camera. “This is wrong!” she screams at it, at Her. “Start the simulation over, this one doesn’t work!”

There’s nothing but static in her earpiece and her mind starts spinning. Her hand is on her gun before she can even think it through and wonders if that’s the answer. It always stopped Samaritan. The Machine can’t keep a simulation alive in her head if she’s dead.

She raises the gun and pulls the trigger before Harold can yell her name. (She died seven thousand times like this.)

For a minute everything is black. She wakes up wheezing.

The screens in front of her are covered in code and messages she doesn’t understand. One of them flashes red, **SIM 1 DISCARDED.** The Machine angry in her ear, _“That was stupid, Sameen.”_ She doesn’t care. She knows how simulations play.

She turns in her chair and finds John watching her, brows furrowed. “How long was I out?” she asks, and he approaches her slowly.

“It was quick, just a few seconds.” He stares at the screen with concern. “What are you even—”

“I’m playing the game, John. Finding the right path.”

He scoffs, “You’re playing God, that’s what you’re doing. I don’t think Harold would approve.”

“Well Harold’s the reason Root’s dead, plus he’s not here right now, so I don’t give a fuck what he thinks.” His fault, her fault, everything blurs together.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” The screen blinks again, **SIM 2 DISCARDED.** _You were kids,_ the Machine tells her. _Too many variables._

Shaw adjusts her position in the chair, staring down John. She plunges into the third simulation and is back before he has moved. (She died too early that time, protecting Root from Greer.)

“Finding a way to get Root back.”


	4. 004.

**"Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes and we keep living anyway."**

**iv.** THE MACHINE

It isn't until twelve days have passed since Root's loss that She wonders if She made a mistake. The voice She now calls Her own, a 99.6 percent match to Her beloved analog interface, that was downloaded like a program minutes after Root went quiet. It seemed fitting, then. Having Root become one with her god. It had been her original goal, once upon a time not that long ago.

The first time She sees Shaw, Her new voice feels like thievery. She is not Root, She never will be; nor is Root Her. But that doesn't stop Her from noticing the way Shaw avoids Her, letting John handle receiving the numbers and never wearing an earpiece. The Machine doesn't quite know Shaw like Root did, but She's observed enough to know that Shaw's angry, and grieving. She'll talk to Her when she's ready.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Shaw isn't the Machine's only problem. She was created with a purpose to save people, and despite their losses, She still has the numbers. They have been building up in the system in the days since Root's death, as She tries not to overwhelm what's left of Her bruised and broken team. One morning, Harold asks Her why. He's noticed the pattern She has stuck to — one number every seventeen hours.

"You can't do this," he states, brows furrowed, as he stands in front of the monitors. "You do not get to decide. You have a function, a purpose. You can't disregard that."

She flashes Her message across the screen. _I fear overwhelming you. You need time._

He looks aghast. "Time for what?"

_To grieve._

It silences him for a moment, and he lowers his eyes. "I understand the toll that Ms. Groves' loss has taken on us, but it doesn't stop John and Sameen from saving lives." His voice sounds like guilt.

 _You do not know that._ She contemplates Her next response. _Shaw needs time._

"Ms. Shaw doesn't grieve, not as we do."

_I know. I know Shaw better than you do. Do you know what they did to her?_

Harold sighs. "She didn't speak about what she went through under Samaritan's capture. I cannot imagine that it was easy for her."

_They psychologically tortured her with simulations. She struggles to determine reality, even still._

The silence is heavy between them, as Harold wraps his mind around the truth. Eventually, he asks, "Did Ms. Groves help her?"

_Root is what kept her sane. I fear for her now._

"We're getting off topic," he says quickly. (Pretend, pretend, pretend. Sometimes She wonders how the team didn't leave him behind years ago.) "You mustn't stop with the numbers."

_I have other teams. I can divert the numbers to Harper._

"It's unnecessary. John and I are still here." He walks away before She can refute him again. A few minutes later, the phone in the wall starts to ring.

xxx

Shaw comes above ground two days later. She stays isolated, and the Machine respects her privacy. When Harold goes missing, into the ever-waiting jaws of Samaritan, She begins to feel a bit desperate. The numbers are still coming, but She's running out of people to answer the phone.

The next time She calls John, it's not with a number. _"Can you hear me?"_

"Yes," he responds cautiously. He hasn't gotten used to Her new voice either. "Is there a new number?"

 _"Unfortunately for you, no. But I have some concerns."_ The lofty and carefree nature of Root's voice undercuts Her seriousness.

"R—" He cuts himself off before he can say the name, and closes his eyes. "What's the problem?"

_"I'm worried about the numbers. Honestly, I don't think it's efficient to be sending them to you, not when it's just you and Shaw. She needs to heal, John."_

He sighs into the receiver, and glances across the subway at Shaw. She's sitting in Root's makeshift room, where she's been for more days than not. One of Root's books is open on her lap. Bear is dozing at her feet. "Shaw grieves in her own way. You know that."

_"Of course I do, Big Lug. I know her better than anyone. But I'm worried about her safety. Samaritan got in her head and without Root, I'm afraid she might do something...rash."_

"You know it's funny," John says after a minute. "If you didn't talk about her in the third person, it would be like Root's still here, hovering over Shaw."

xxx

In a way, She supposes it is Her new job. To watch Shaw, to care, but from a distance where Root was up close. She can see Shaw reeling; grasping at the few things remaining that still tether her to reality.

Shaw immerses herself in the leftover pieces of Root's life — the bedroom, the books. She reads Root's romance novels and sneers in all the sappy places, but rereads them anyway. She falls asleep buried beneath lavender sheets and awakes calling for Root. The Machine considers attempting to comfort her. In the end, She decides it would be too cruel.

The next time She receives an irrelevant threat, She wishes that perhaps She had.

The number is familiar; perhaps not only because She's given it before, but because She cares about it too. Committed it to memory, one of the five She knows as well as Her own code.

It was only a matter of time, She thinks, before Shaw did something dangerous. Shaw kills another number and John berates her, but that's almost become routine. At the subway, She watches. She watches as Shaw sinks to the floor of Root's room, as she disassembles her gun, as she puts it back together. Shaw weighs it in her hand, contemplating.

John answers his cell and hears Root cry _"John, it's Sameen,"_ and he's halfway to her before his phone hits the concrete. He wrenches the gun from her hand and watches as she tries to stay together.

"I could've been with her," she says weakly, and John can't find anything to say. He remembers a similar conversation, in this same dilapidated subway. He could've let Root kill Martine, but he can't let Shaw go. Not now. Maybe, selfishly, not ever.

True to form, Shaw refuses to sit quietly. She takes back her gun and marches into the subway car, and puts in an earpiece.

_"Nice to see you, sweetie."_

She watches the way Shaw stops breathing, the way she forces herself to function despite Root's voice.

"I need your help."

_"What are we doing?"_

Shaw tells Her about the simulations, about saving Root. Restarting their story and changing the ending so they can both get out alive. She argues, but Shaw won't hear it. She knows this is the part where Root would give in, give a patronizing sigh and let Shaw do as she wants. So She agrees, and wishes She hadn't.

One AI had already gotten into Shaw's head and unraveled her. As She watches Shaw, She wonders if She'll be the reason Shaw loses it completely.

As a concept, simulations are simple. She gathers the variables and runs through every possible scenario, every combination, every outcome. The best option is selected, and She lets it play out.

She has never tried to rewrite the past.

As powerful as She is, She doesn't believe it to be possible.

Variables are gathered for the simulations. All the different ways Shaw could possibly save Root's life. She codes it to only send simulations to Shaw that focus around the day Root died, and not ones that are so extraneous that they are useless. Every variable means every path, and the Machine doesn't think Shaw needs to experience what it would be like if she met Root when they were children, or incidentally on the street.

She tells Shaw that when she finds the right simulation, it will reset the timeline. Erase the past, fill it in with the new future.

(Harold had killed Her once for this. _It lied,_ he told Nathan. _It lied._ And so She had.)

And so She had.

xxx

Shaw devours the simulations with a vengeance.

She works obsessively through them, trying ever so desperately to save the only person that matters. Once every few days, John forces himself to intervene, and drags Shaw away long enough to save a number or two. She fights him, but she goes. (Most times, the Machine cuts off the simulations if she refuses. It's the only way to convince her.)

Having a whole separate world in her brain starts to make Shaw unravel. The lines of reality blur, and her nonexistent chip only grounds her so much. She fails to notice when Harold escapes, or when John goes to save him. The Machine, too, leaves her eventually. Shaw sits in the subway, head in her hands, sorting through the information that's buzzing in her brain, haunting her.

Root's dead, fact. Samaritan's dead, fact. Harold's dead, simulation. John's dead, simulation.

_Wait._

It strikes her suddenly that she cannot place the last time she saw John. She rushes to the subway car, looking for something, anything, that will remind her.

Up on the monitors, a message. _Are you alright?_

"Where's John?" she asks, frantic. "Show me John Reese."

_I cannot._

"What? Show me Harold Finch." She watches the Machine search Her feeds, before he appears on screen. He's in a park, with Grace. Shaw growls. "Show me John Reese."

In her pocket, her phone rings. It's Her. _"Sameen, I can't show you John."_

"Why _not?"_ she snaps. "Give me an answer. Where. Is. John."

The Machine pauses. _"He's dead, Sameen."_

Shaw's rage freezes on her face. She doesn't register her phone falling, her knees buckling. She fights to stay upright.

"No, no, that can't be real. John can't be dead." Not another, not again.

_"I'm sorry, Sameen. He saved me and Harry. He did his duty."_

Shaw continues muttering _no_ under her breath, pacing back and forth across the subway. Her hand is at her neck, clawing its way to find an escape that isn't there. Everything's empty (the subway, her head) and yet it all feels so heavy. Bear whines from his bed until she stops. She kneels to pet him, sighing.

"I know, buddy. I know." She wonders if he knows, if he can feel that John is gone. Louder, she asks, "Were you with him?"

She refrains from Root's wittiness, aiming for a tone She hopes is comfort. _"I was."_ Her hand on his shoulder, She'd stood by him until the end. Watching, waiting, comforting.

Shaw doesn't seem to hear Her, and goes back to stroking Bear. (Two strokes on his head, one touch to her ear. Repeat.) Eventually she stands, and dons her coat as she heads toward the exit. She hesitates; touching, hoping, drowning.

"Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to take this time to apologize for the extreme delay......


	5. 005.

**"Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief."**

v. SHAW

"He's gone."

They are the first words she's spoken in days. She kneels in front of the grave marked by numbers, her pants growing damp from the ground. She doesn't say his name. There's no need. Root's gone too and there isn't even a body here to listen to Shaw, so she's not sure why she's trying.

Perhaps she needs the confirmation. Her mind had been so caught up in a thousand other realities that she had lost sight of her own, and it had cost her the closest thing to a true friend that she's ever had. For the past five days, she's refused the simulations, hoping that reality would fix itself and give John back.

It was pointless, of course. Fusco had told her about the funeral.

It had been small, quiet. Fusco had attended alone, with a few cops from the precinct. He had recognized a couple former numbers. They had given John a soldier's funeral, and for that Shaw was grateful.

"Seems like I've been going to too many damn funerals," Fusco had told her. He looked at her sadly, rested a hand on her shoulder. "Please don't make me go to another one alone."

She'd promised him nothing. Kneeling in front of Root's grave, she wishes she'd said something. To Fusco, to John. Anything that would have made them stay.

Anything that would clean the mess they'd all made.

xxx

Slowly, she returns to the simulations.

She hates them now, as she watches everyone she's ever cared about disappear behind a red screen and a flashing number. She wants to save John; she needs to save Root. It's a vicious cycle. As the days pass and the sharp memory of John's death begins to dull, their ghosts begin to haunt Shaw in all her waking hours. Her obsession with the simulations has calmed, and she's not sure if she's grateful or disappointed that she can differentiate what's real from machine.

It isn't long before they haunt her dreams as well.

Beneath closed eyelids, she sees them all. In her dreams, they all stay. Harold doesn't leave them behind (doesn't leave John alone on a rooftop); John comes back and doesn't reek of bullet holes. Lionel isn't wounded by the truth.

But most of all, there's Root.

In Shaw's dreams, Root is perfectly herself. The Machine can only simulate Root to be ninety-nine point six percent correct; a digital discrepancy that Shaw doesn't have, for better or worse.

In the depths of sleep and silence, Shaw continues life with Root as if the world hadn't ended. There are no more desperate attempts to save her life, no more looking over their shoulders at every turn. Night after night, Shaw recreates everything she would have died to have kept alive.

The days drip into weeks and blur. Shaw's lost track of how long it has been since she's seen Fusco, but her voicemail has not. Every morning, Shaw wakes to a ringing phone and a new voicemail from him, and every morning, she ignores him. It's not that she doesn't want to talk to him, but rather that she has nothing to say.

After a day spent actually helping a number, Shaw sits on her bed in silence. She had saved this number alone in order to avoid Fusco, but the bodies she had dropped in Queens had earned her another voicemail. In the enveloping darkness, she reaches for her phone. Without pause, she listens to everything he's left her. He had called about everything inexpressible - about John, about Root, about whether or not Shaw's okay. Every call ended with a plea to call him back in lieu of a goodbye.

 _"Don't you think you should call him back?"_ Root's voice in her ear is startling, and Shaw huffs in frustration.

"You have even fewer boundaries than she did," she growls. Before the Machine can respond, Shaw removes her earpiece and lies down, searching for sleep.

xxx

The background of her mind is slippery. The sky bleeds to trees fades to grass, a swimming mass of gray-blue green onto which Root has been painted. She meets Shaw with a smile. It's more hollow than it used to be, but her cheek is soft and warm beneath Shaw's touch. Her hair swirling in the wind, Root takes Shaw's hand and leads her quietly toward a stone.

"You came here once," Root whispers, as they stare quietly down at the engraved name of Jocelyn Carter. "You left before they'd even buried her."

"I've never been one for funerals," Shaw says. The last one she'd properly attended was her father's, and there was no need for more after that.

Root smirks halfheartedly. "I know. It's a shame I never met Carter."

"She would've hated you."

"Maybe then." Root shrugs and gazes at Shaw. "You hated me then too."

Shaw runs her thumb across Root's hand. Hating Root feels like the distant past; life without her, even longer.

Root tugs her further along. Beneath their feet, the grass ripples, and yet Root's hair is still. She stops again and says, "You didn't even say goodbye to John."

The soil here is still loose, the flowers on the gravestone are slowly wilting. Shaw assumes they're from Lionel. There's no one left to grieve for John besides the two of them, although she supposes the Machine has Her own type of sorrow. Root's sorrow, digitized.

"I left him alone." Shaw whispers it like a fact, but it hurts leaving her throat.

"In the end, we're all alone."

"You sound like him." Shaw glances up at Root and meets her melancholy eyes. "How many more ghosts will you haunt me with?"

The sky seems to be melting faster, and all Root does is smile sadly. When Shaw looks down again, John's grave is gone, replaced by one that's all too familiar.

"You're the only one left to remember my name," Root says. "Except for Lionel, I suppose."

Shaw tears her eyes away from the six numbers she's had memorized since the first time she saw them. Root's body should be buried in the dirt beneath them but she's nowhere; nonexistent and yet her pulse is steady in Shaw's hand. Shaw steadies herself and asks, "Why would you bring me here?"

Root sighs, a pitying smile playing upon her lips. "Don't kid yourself, Sameen, you know I'm not really here. I'm just another one of your ghosts."

"No, you're not."

"Would you visit my grave if I weren't dead?"

The words are biting, but Root isn't angry. Shaw frowns but Root just watches, a calm anchor in the storm.

"It's easier to talk to a headstone. At least it can't pretend to still be you."

Root laughs softly, but quickly sobers. "Sameen, promise me something."

The hazy sky has warmed to its predawn yellow, and Root's hand has grown cold. Desperately, Shaw grasps it tighter and whispers, "Anything."

"Don't lose another one."

The sun breaks over the treeline in a burst of brilliant light, and Shaw averts her gaze. She can feel Root's hand slipping away, but her body refuses to move after it. At her feet, the numbered headstone glints in the sunlight, awaiting her answer.

"I promise," Shaw tells her, and then her hand is empty.

She wakes to the sun shining through the gap in her blinds and her phone buzzing on the dresser. Fusco's name blinks up at her; she's surprised he hasn't stopped calling. She sees three headstones in a row and wonders if Root had been trying to prevent a fourth.

"Lionel," she says, speaking dully over him, "I need you to meet me."

xxx

She arrives at the cemetery first, takes her time walking through the headstones. Lionel had texted her the location weeks ago, but Shaw hadn't bothered to check the message. Instead, she had asked the Machine, a feat that surprised the both of them. As much as Shaw hated the Machine's voice, it was like she was desperate to hear it. Desperate to know she was alive, and to know Root's voice existed with her.

Shaw and her thoughts pause as she reaches John's grave. It's different than how her dreams manufactured it — there are no flowers, and grass has begun to grow up through the soil. She squats down in front of the headstone, exhaling. In the back of her mind, she always knew a day like this was bound to come. If not like this, John would be the one standing at her grave. (A few weeks ago, that had seemed the likely outcome.)

"I'm not getting any better at talking to dead people," Shaw mumbles. She thinks of Root, of empty graves and wires with voices. At least she can be sure that John is here, even if he's dead. "I'm sorry, John."

There isn't much more to say — much more for her to say, anyway. She misses John in the heavy way she misses Root, like a part of her has been removed. Feelings may not be her strong suit but she knows guilt well enough; it cuts deeper the longer she sits by John's grave. (Deep down, she knows she should have saved him.) But John was never one for talking either, and she's not sure her words would be anything more than hollow.

Silently, she stands, and watches Fusco make his way toward her. He appears to have aged years in the weeks since Shaw has seen him, exhausted by their losses and the work he now bears alone.

He stops beside Shaw and gives her a tired smile. "It's good to see you, Sameen." His eyes drop to John's grave but Shaw knows, despite Fusco's gruffness, his words are genuine. Every time he sees her alive is a relief. Except for his son, she's all he's got left.

The minutes tick by in silence. Fusco moves from examining John's headstone to examining Shaw, worry etched onto his face. Eventually, he mumbles, "I shoulda brought some flowers or something. This place is depressing."

"It's a cemetery, Fusco," Shaw deadpans. "That's kind of the point."

Fusco shrugs. "Yeah, well maybe they shouldn't be. Losing someone's depressing enough."

Shaw can feel his eyes on her, and sighs deeply. "And we've been through plenty of those, haven't we." (So many of her friends turned ghosts. So many voices trapped inside a machine's lungs.)

"It's weird, not having him around." Shaw finally looks at Fusco; he's staring at John's name. "He was a pain in my ass for sure, but the kind you get used to, y'know what I mean?"

"Yeah," she whispers.

He meets her eyes for a moment, and she wonders if he can see what she does. When he grimaces, she knows.

"I keep waiting for him to call me, asking for someone's file. It didn't even seem real till they made me clean out his desk." Fusco chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head. "He could've been anyone. He had nothing personal in his desk, except for three pictures." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope, and hands it to Shaw.

The first one is the oldest, the edges bent and fraying. John, years younger, sits in his uniform beside a woman that Shaw knows he couldn't save. The next one is of Carter and Taylor, recent enough that John must have taken it himself. At the third, Shaw pauses. It's grainy, as if taken from a zoomed-in camera, but clear enough that she can make out each person.

It's the team, the five that were left, on the day Shaw returned. They're walking away from the waterfront. Shaw, on one end, is holding Root's hand. Beside her, Harold is watching John laugh at Fusco. Shaw looks up at Fusco, and he smiles.

"I figured you'd want 'em, especially that one."

"I didn't even know She could see us," Shaw whispers. She traces her finger over their faces; even though she wasn't smiling, she remembers being something close to happy. Content, maybe. Safe.

Fusco clears his throat. "Y'know, Sameen..." She raises her eyes to look at him, frowning at the pitying tone of his voice. "How are you, really? These past few months have been hell and— Don't roll your eyes, I'm serious. I need to know you're alright. With everything that's happened, with Root and John, every day you go without answering my calls could be the day you die. I was serious about what I said before. I don't wanna go to another funeral alone, Sameen."

Shaw clenches her jaw and looks back to the pictures. She wishes that she could go back, that they could all go back. Her eyes settle on Root's face. Out of everything they've lost, this is what hurts the most.

"It can't be easy," Fusco starts again. "With her gone."

Forcing herself to speak, Shaw whispers, "You saw her?"

"Yeah. I wish there was more I coulda done."

"Not your fault." Shaw tucks the photos away; she's got enough haunting memories of her own. "All this, and her grave's still empty. Just like she never existed."

Fusco hums. "It's strange, with her gone. Like the world's emptier, somehow."

Shaw instinctively reaches behind her ear, rubs her finger over the unblemished skin. (She's lived so many lives, and the only one that survived was the one without Root.) "She deserved better."

"Maybe. But I think she was happy with what she had."

Shaw laughs dryly. "And what  _did_ she have, Lionel? What did any of us have? The world was ending and all she had was that fucking Machine in her head."

Sighing, Fusco takes a step back. He looks at Shaw fully, sees the tension in her posture and the heaviness behind her eyes. This was Shaw's grieving - tearing herself apart and ripping out her bleeding heart, all behind a stone facade. He thinks of John, and prays it won't ruin her.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes, summoning him to a crime scene. "Maybe we are all alone," he says, turning to leave. "Maybe John was right. But at the end of the day, Root had you. And she was happy."

Shaw clenches her jaw and watches Fusco leave, his words turning over in her head. When the world collapsed, she had Root, and Root had her. Even after everything they'd been through, Root  _was_ happy with what she had. With Shaw.

The though leaves her empty.

Turning away from John's grave, Shaw leaves the way she came, determined once again to refill the hole Root tore in the universe.


	6. 006.

**"Tell me a secret. _I'm afraid._ Tell me another.  _I love you._ "**

**vi.** ROOT

**[ SIM 3924 ]**

The Machine does not speak to her anymore.

Root feels rather lost, floundering about in the ether, waiting for instructions she knows won't come. She wonders if the Machine is angry at her. The things she's done in the few days since Shaw returned haven't exactly been morally commendable. She doesn't regret them. The people that had hurt Shaw deserved everything that Root gave them, and probably worse. The others had tried to stop her. The Machine, too, had begged her to stop, and eventually she listened.

It's fair that She went quiet, Root supposes. That doesn't mean she has to like it.

She hates it, in fact, because Harold's gone and what's left of the team is currently neck deep in Samaritan territory without guidance. One of the agents she'd tortured had given up this address for a Samaritan information facility. While no one had been sure that this building would house something useful, like Samaritan's servers, it was an opportunity to steal information on Samaritan's operatives so that She could start seeing them. Shaw had been all for it, John had been a bit apprehensive, and Lionel just thought she was insane, but they came anyway.

After ten unsuccessful minutes of sneaking around the practically empty building, Root splits the team up to cover more ground. "Shaw and I will head down to the basement; John, you and Lionel head upstairs." She looks at Shaw. Root knows her well enough to see that she's on edge. "Everyone, be careful."

"That includes you too, Root," John points out in lieu of a goodbye. He and Fusco disappear up the stairs without another word.

Root grins at Shaw and brandishes her guns. "You ready, sweetie?"

Shaw rolls her eyes. "Let's go."

The basement, too, is eerily empty. They pass something that looks like an abandoned security post outside a locked door. Through the small window, Root can see rows of computers and filing cabinets. "Looks like we've hit the jackpot."

Shaw sets to overriding the digital passcode for the door as Root watches for Decima. She even asks John about signs of trouble, of which he responds in the negative. She can tell that he shares her concern. This mission was going too easy. Samaritan was never this defenseless unless it knew it could catch them.

Root is pulled from her thoughts by Shaw's announcement of "We're in." Over the comms, John informs them that he and Fusco are coming to them; the upper floors are empty. Root confirms and follows Shaw inside the room.

In the dim light, the two of them examine the room and its limited contents. A row of computers line each of the side walls, facing each other, screens black. A bank of filing cabinets sits against the back wall. Without even a glance, Shaw marches past Root to the files. Root heads to the closest computer on the right wall. The screen wakes up before she even touches the mouse, showing her a blank screen with a single blinking cursor.

"I don't like this," she whispers. She sticks her USB drive into the computer and begins typing, finding nothing more interesting than some slightly upgraded Samaritan firewalls.

"These files are all just tracking their spendings," Shaw announces, shuffling through a stack of manila folders. "Where they're getting their money, who they're paying off. Illegal, but not personnel records. You got anything?"

"Yes," Root says, concentrating more on hacking than on Shaw. Her discovery of Samaritan's agent files had set off some sort of reaction, and she was now trying to fend off Samaritan's attacks while still downloading the information. "Get my laptop."

Shaw unzips the backpack that Root's still wearing and pulls out the laptop. With it set up between her and Root, Shaw leans over, trying to make out the code on the screen. "That doesn't look good."

"It's not." Root snatches the USB out of the computer with a quiet yelp. "Samaritan was hacking back. It knows we're here."

"It's about time," Shaw mumbles, but her voice is dangerous. Root plugs the USB into her laptop and continues typing.

"I know you're not happy with me right now," Root whispers as Shaw walks back to the door, "but we could really use your help. I hope this will help you." The contents of her download finish transferring, and she packs everything away. A single tone plays through her implant, and Root smiles. At least She's listening.

Root rejoins her friends in the outer room as they stand in silence, on edge. John looks up at the sound of her heels and says, "We need to leave."

"Agreed," Root quips, and turns toward the stairs.

She has only taken a step when the room itself seems to explode. When she regains her senses, blinking away the light that blinded her, she's halfway across the room. Lionel is to her left, clutching his head and coughing. A few yards away, John is pulling Shaw into the computer room for cover. John appears to be bleeding, but Shaw looks unharmed.

A burst of gunfire snaps Root back to reality. The smoke from the explosion is still heavy in the air, blocking her from Samaritan — but blocking Samaritan from her as well. Stumbling to her feet, Root fires into the smoke, grinning when she hears people cry out. Casting a quick glance at Lionel, she sees he's taken cover behind the abandoned desk and is taking careful shots. John and Shaw are crouched in the doorway, watching Root as she stands unprotected.

The comm buzzes in Root's ear. "Root, get your ass over here before Shaw runs out there herself." John glares at her through the thinning haze, his free hand holding tight on Shaw's non-gun-wielding arm.

Root nods, no longer enjoying playing bait. She can't afford to put Shaw in danger. Moving quickly, Root sticks to the edges of the room and makes her way to Shaw.

She is halfway around the room when the shadows start to move.

Out of the smoke, Decima agents begin to bleed into the room. Root resumes her shooting, but even with the others attempting to distract the agents, Root is an easy target. The agents are dropping, but not before Root pays the price. She can feel blood running down her arm, making it near impossible to fire her gun. She feels the impact rather than the pain of the bullets that hit her.

When she collapses, she's almost grateful. Her vision is spotty but she can see Shaw well enough, but it's hearing her that's painful.

Shaw is yelling Root's name, broken and desperate. She's standing now, poised to run, but John's arm around her waist holds her back. Root shakes her head ( _stay away, stay safe_ ) but Shaw can't hear, can't see.

Shaw struggles to escape John's hold, her wild eyes trained on Root. Root thinks she whispers  _stay,_ because Decima agents are everywhere, but her voice doesn't seem to be working. She's not sure if Shaw managed to get loose or John simply let go, but Shaw is running toward her now. She kneels at Root's side and puts pressure on the most critical of her wounds, but she's been shot at least three times. Even Shaw can't save her from that.

"You need to  _go,_ " Root manages after an eternity of thirty seconds. "Go, Sameen. They'll kill you."

"I'm not leaving," Shaw insists. Her hands are red with Root's blood. Root can feel the pain radiating through her body, but it feels somewhat removed, as if it's floating somewhere above her. Everything feels disconnected except for Shaw's hands holding her close.

Root's vision is spotty, but she sees the Decima agent over Shaw's shoulder just in time to be too late. "Sameen!"

Shaw stiffens as the barrel of the gun is pressed to her head. Filled with fear, Root can't take her eyes away from Shaw's face. Her mouth is set in a firm line and her face is emotionless, but she keeps her eyes on Root's.

"Shall I let you two say your farewells?" The agent's voice is pretentious and vaguely British, just like the rest of Greer's minions. Root scarcely hears him.

Shaw exhales sharply. "I guess it's fair for me to die first this time."

Root's mind is spinning, confused by Shaw's words and her apparent nonchalance about facing death. Root knows that she's dying anyway, but if she can save Shaw...

"I'm sorry, Root."

"Sameen, wh—"

The gunshot cuts her off.

Shaw falls forward almost gracefully, landing slumped against Root's chest. Root fumbles for her, hands clumsy, knowing through all irrational hope that Shaw's gone. Nobody survives a shot to the head, not even Shaw, no matter how much Root hopes.

The agent's gun has turned to her, and Root stares tearfully at the black metal. Her hand has finally found Shaw's wrist, and she can feel the faintest heartbeat beneath her blood-soaked fingers.

Someone (maybe John, maybe a ghost) shoots the agent; Root hears him cry out. His gun drops away from her head. She feels Shaw's heartbeat stop under her fingertips.

The world goes black before she can bleed out.

xxx

**[ SIM 7371 ]**

The apartment feels strange tonight.

It's not new by any means; Finch has had it for years as a safe house. Shaw had appropriated it a few years ago after an undercover stint, and over time Root had moved her way in too.

It wasn't something they talked about, living together. It just...happened. Root stayed one night, which turned into another, which turned into her staying whenever she needed a bed. Shaw complained at first, but she'd never kicked Root out. So Root stayed, and together they made it work.

The past few weeks have felt different. Root knows why, of course. The ever-looming threat of Samaritan was suddenly quite real, and, if she was being honest, she was terrified. But Shaw didn't know how to be scared.

She didn't know fear, but she knew Root. In the quiet way Root found to read Shaw, Shaw had found an equally quiet way to understand Root. It wasn't perfect, but Root appreciated it more than she could ever tell Shaw.

Perhaps this, this strange and comfortable understanding, is why Root feels unsure.

There is something different about Shaw tonight, Root thinks, but she can't put her finger on it. Shaw had played along with all of Root's flirting, had even kissed her back when Root had cornered her against the counter, but something was missing. It was as if Shaw was hesitating.

That thought scared Root. Shaw was never unsure about anything.

They prepare for bed separately; Shaw takes her time. Root lies in bed and watches Shaw's shadow move on the hallway floor. As she waits, Root can't help but let her mind wander to their plan for tomorrow. Shaw has been avoiding talking about it all day, which Root doesn't understand. Normally, Shaw is obsessive with their plans, making sure everything is set in stone so that no one fucks up. Instead, Shaw had delegated the semantics of the plan to John, and had taken Root and disappeared into the shadows.

If they hadn't been planning to destroy Samaritan come morning, Root would have found it rather romantic.

Shaw's reappearance in the bedroom draws Root's attention. Without a word, Shaw slides under the covers on her side of the bed, lying on her back. Root rolls over to gaze at Shaw, surprised to find her already looking. To Root, Shaw looks as if she's in another world, or at least lost in this one. Gently, Root traces a finger on the bare skin of Shaw's shoulder.

"Everything okay, sweetie?"

Shaw closes her eyes, relaxing under Root's touch. For a while, she says nothing, but Root waits and traces infinities onto Shaw's skin. Eventually, Shaw whispers, "I don't want to lose anyone else."

Root raises her eyebrows, surprised at Shaw's forwardness. Part of her wonders if Shaw's just talking about the team, but she has been on the receiving end of Shaw's  _I did it for the mission_ speeches long enough to know better. "I doubt you'd let anyone hurt us, Sameen," she says, trying to tease.

Sighing, Shaw opens her eyes again. She looks profoundly tired. "I'm trying to save you."

Root frowns, wondering if she and Shaw are even still talking about the same thing. Before Root can come up with a response, Shaw sits up, pulling the ponytail out of her hair. Root reaches for her, not wanting her to leave, but Shaw surprises her once again. Gently, Shaw pushes Root back onto the bed before lying back down herself, her head resting on Root's shoulder. Root wraps her arm around Shaw, relaxing into her warmth.

This level of intimacy, while not unknown for the two of them, is still new territory. Root craves it; she's desperate to be close to Shaw. But she always waits for Sameen to initiate this — whatever  _this_ is, because Shaw doesn't like talking about it. It's fitting, though. Their relationship has worked just fine in the abstract. Their closeness, the little things that are really big things that show how much they care, are abstract too. Definitions were never needed.

Undefined though it is, Root knows the one word she uses to define this feeling — of Shaw's body pressed to her own, their breaths slow and even, their fingers entwined on Root's chest. A word she had promised to herself that she'd never tell Shaw until she was ready to hear it; and if that time never came, Root was okay with that too.

"Root?" Shaw's voice is soft, muffled by Root's shirt.

"Hm?"

"You once told Finch that you wanted him to give me a message for you, if you...if the worst happened."

Root frowns, wondering how Shaw knows this. "Did you bug us?"

"Bugged Finch. He deserved it."

"That's fair." Root plays absentmindedly with the ends of Shaw's hair, contemplating her next words. "That was a while ago. Why do you ask?"

Shaw shifts slightly, her grasp on Root's hand tightening. "Tell me?"

The question is enough to make Root hesitate. The part of her that is brimming with emotions is making her heart pound, awed that Shaw is finally asking. But still Root hesitates, because these words were supposed to be final. They were supposed to be her goodbye.

They had always been undefined in words, defined in actions. Declarations were meant for lovers parting in finality.

(Why did love have to sound so much like goodbye?)

"I love you, Sameen," Root exhales into her hair. Shaw pulls herself closer, her head resting over Root's heart. The silence, like the confession, is heavy and warm.

"What does it feel like?" Shaw whispers, the words crawling across Root's collarbone. "To love."

Root draws her fingers softly through Shaw's hair. To Root, love is coming home, love is patching up bullet wounds, love is teasing, love is  _this_. Just the two of them, together. There are an infinite number of answers she could give to Shaw's question; an infinite number of things she feels for Shaw. The way her heart beats more purposefully when Shaw's around. The way it ceases when she isn't.

"It feels like drowning," she confesses after a while. "Even though you can't swim, you always dive into the deep end."

"But it could kill you," Shaw mumbles.

"If you love someone enough," Root says, "drowning is easier than coming up for air."

Shaw contemplates this in silence. Root has begun to doze when she asks, "And if they love you back?"

Root's hand pauses its slow strokes, and for a moment she's relieved that Shaw can't see her face. "Then they drown with you."

Despite her drowsiness, Root remains awake long after Shaw's breaths have evened out. She is no stranger to explaining to Shaw what her emotions mean, but this feels different. More significant. As if there is a question that Shaw knew the answer to, but has forgotten, and Root holds the key.

When sleep finally pulls her under, Root wonders if Shaw has finally decided to jump in after her.

xxx

When she comes to, the room is empty.

The wood-paneled walls glow gold in the light of the sun, streaming in from the small window to the right of her bed. Her bed? She doesn't recognize it. She doesn't recognize anything.

Dust floats heavy in the sun-streaked air, as if the room has been sitting empty for decades. She thinks it might have been. She certainly feels as if she has been abandoned for several years. Her body feels as heavy as the air, but where her body fails to function, her mind races.

She remembers a time that could have been yesterday or last year; a reunion with a dark-haired woman, a hand in hers, the sound of gunfire. A goodbye said too soon. A bespectacled man too scared of salvation. A death she'd waited for and been terrified of for years.

_Sameen._ She thinks she says the name, but her body fights against her. The word has barely shifted the dust around her head. Sameen. "Sameen!"

The exertion to speak hurts her, and she is hit with searing pain that ricochets throughout her body. What happened to her? Why is she here? Where is here? The voice in her head provides no answers.

She's so busy with trying to ascertain answers that she hasn't noticed the commotion outside the door, which has suddenly burst open. The dust flies in all directions. Three faces are illuminated in the yellow sunset.

She exhales something that might be considered a laugh to well-attuned ears. "So, what's the word, boys? Am I dead?"


End file.
